


For Old Time's Sake

by Merkwerkee



Category: Void Jumpers
Genre: Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27372835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merkwerkee/pseuds/Merkwerkee
Summary: After the paperwork for his third divorce goes through, Sam "celebrates" his new status at his favorite bar
Kudos: 1





	For Old Time's Sake

Sam raised a finger, and the bartender obligingly placed another drink in front of him.

He grabbed it and tossed it back, missing the familiar clink against the glass as he did so. How did the saying go - third time’s a charm? Certainly wasn’t for him. He sighed and set the glass down, looking at the bare spot on his hand.

Sam had signed the final papers earlier in the night; she’d taken the ring, and he was a free man once again. Nothing to his name but a broken-down office that concealed a Murphy bed behind some filing cabinets, and a little black case sitting quietly on the stool beside him. Hell, the only reason he hadn’t pawned the little case years ago was because…because…

“Hey Nico, why ain’t I pawned this old thing yet?”

The bartender looked up to see him pointing at the little black case and snorted. “‘Cause I pay you fifty bucks a set and half the tips you make when you’re desperate for rent,” she told him bluntly, and Sam looked between his glass and the case with his lips set in a thin line. She wasn’t wrong, per se, but that wasn’t the reason he was here now.

“You’re all heart, Nico. Space open tonight?” He wasn’t really in the mood to head back to his shitty office with its lumpy bed. He’d been sleeping alone more often than not recently, but tonight felt more final than the others.

If he went back there now, he knew what he’d do and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the well-meaning neighbors. Not tonight.

Nico made a show of wiping the bar down before she walked over to a little chalkboard hung next to the kitchen door for just such an occasion. “Says here we got an opening at 2, if you’re okay with waiting.”

He snorted and made an expansive gesture with his now-ringless hand. “I’m a free man, Nico. I ain’t got nobody waitin’ up for me.”

Maybe he’d sounded a little more bitter than he’d intended, because the next shot she poured him was a double. He locked eyes with her as he threw it back, and she broke the staring match first when Old Man Thatcher bellied up to the bar to get another three pints of the Blight swill only he and his cronies drank. She left Sam with a glass of water - which he pointedly ignored - and went to go pacify Thatcher with his beer.

Sam leaned back against the bar and looked out over the room. He liked to people-watch - part of what made him such a good gumshoe - and the crowd tonight was subdued. The calm jazz kept people from having to raise their voices or their tempers, and true to the nature of the workday on this planet the crowd was sparse. People came here to relax after ten hours of earning their pay, not to release their pent-up frustration. Not today, anyway, though Sam knew Nico kept a Void-charged truncheon behind the bar for when people tried to get rowdy on the weekends.

The wall still had a divot in it from when she’d last had to use the thing.

It felt like no time at all before it was half an hour to two and the set turn over, and Sam reached over and picked up the little black case. Nodding to Nico, he headed for the back door and pushed it open to reveal the relatively clean alleyway - thankfully not inhabited tonight. Nico despised it when she had to clean up some drunk’s bodily fluids, or when inconsiderate lovers left their mess near her door.

Fortunately, he was here for neither reason.

Setting the little black case down, he undid the dully gleaming latches to reveal the instrument within. Four sleek wooden pieces with brilliant silver fittings gleamed in the light of the overhead fixture, and his fingers found the hard case slipped into the edge of the lining. He pulled it out and cursed - another reed sported grey-green spots; he’d have to get more soon, or run the risk of one of the moldering ones splintering when he tried to play.

Picking the best one of the bunch, he popped it in his mouth while his hands went through the familiar ritual of assembly. First the two barrel pieces, fitted carefully together to make sure the keys lined up; they slid together a little reluctantly - it’d been a while since he’d needed to play bad enough to come to Nico’s and he never played anywhere else - but he didn’t bother pulling the apart to grease them. He’d just have to remember to do it when he put it away, or - more likely - before the next time he brought the thing out.

The bell was next, sliding into place more easily than the barrel pieces. He checked the orientation by habit, though it didn’t really matter for that part. Still, in his line of work it paid to be thorough. No reason not to treat his instrument the same way.

Finally he spat the reed out and affixed it to the mouthpiece. He measured the orientation with his thumb, and tightened it into place when his instincts told him it was in the right spot. Putting the mouthpiece on the rest of the instrument was the work of a moment, and he spent a few seconds just looking at it before he brought it up to test the tuning.

Notes drifted down the alleyway as he warmed up; Sam wasn’t a great virtuoso, but he didn’t play here ‘cause it paid. He played here because it beat any of the other things he could be doing instead. He went through scales, a few jazz riffs, a half-remembered melody and then Nico poked her head out of the door.

“Get in here you idiot, you’re five minutes behind already,” she said before pulling her head back inside.

Sam didn’t bother latching the case, and tucked it under one arm instead. When he got back inside the bar, the jazz group had already cleared out completely and a single stool with a microphone now dominated the small play area. He walked over to it and set his open case at the edge of the space; it wouldn’t be fair to Nico to leave it closed, though it always felt like people put in far too much when he played.

After all, he was nothing special.

Most of the patrons were too wrapped up in their drinks or in each other to notice that the music had stopped, or that Sam was taking the chair, but there were a few curious eyes looking at him with interest. Sam didn’t care; he wasn’t here for them, or for Nico. He was here because he needed to be, and that was enough.

He brought the clarinet to his lips, and started to play.


End file.
